


Couch Story

by la_dissonance



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Cousin Incest, Enthusiastic Consent, M/M, Voyeurism, filming a sextape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-13
Updated: 2012-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-31 02:01:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/338645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_dissonance/pseuds/la_dissonance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shane will readily admit some of the photos in his "Ian" folder look a bit...intimate, but it's not like anything could come of it. They're family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Couch Story

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the no_tags challenge on livejournal, originally posted [here](http://no-tags.livejournal.com/71592.html)
> 
> Now with [podfic by quintenttsy](http://leish.dreamwidth.org/28362.html)!

The volleyball game on the beach has been winding down for a couple hours now, past the point where anyone's playing volleyball anymore and into the bonfire-and-burgers portion of the evening. Brendon flops down next to Shane and carefully wedges a bottle of beer in the sand next to him. "Hey," he says.

Shane makes a vague noise of greeting and lifts his camera to his face, trying to get a good shot of the last sliver of sunset over the water. 

"Perfect fucking day for this," Brendon says, and begins to devour a burger out of the folded paper plate he'd carried over from the grill.

"Yeah," Shane agrees. Some people run into the water, laughing and splashing each other, and he lowers his camera.

"Dude," Brendon says through a bite of burger, nudging Shane's arm with his greasy plate.

Shane unfolds the plate and discovers a second burger inside, slightly dented and oozing ketchup out one side. "Ooo, for me?"

"Dude, I'm not an asshole _all_ the time," Brendon says. "You'll have to get your own beer though."

"S'cool," Shane says. He's not in the mood to get drunk right now, the way everyone down the beach at the main party seems to be. It's peaceful out here on the fringe of things; there's a nice breeze off the water and there's a bright planet hanging in the half-dark sky above the horizon. Shane can never remember which planet comes out first - Venus, maybe? It's definitely planets and not stars, though; he still remembers how much that particular science unit blew his mind in fourth grade.

"What're you thinking about?" Brendon asks, finishing his burger with a loud smack of his lips. "You're like a million miles away."

Shane shrugs. "Nothing much."

"Can I see what you took?" Brendon makes grabby hands at Shane's camera, and Shane hurries to unloop it from his neck before Brendon forgets it's attached and accidentally strangles him on the strap. It wouldn't be the first time that's happened.

Brendon makes little appreciative noises as he flips through the photos, and Shane relaxes back on his elbows and lifts his face to the breeze. He'll look through the pictures tomorrow, maybe, once he has a chance to put them on the computer.

"Dude, this is really gay," Brendon says, just as Ian wanders over from the party and sits down on Shane's other side, kicking sand all over his legs.

"What is? Did you get pictures of Sarah putting sunscreen on Nicole? Because that was pretty much the gayest thing I've ever seen, but I thought you were helping put up the grill when that happened." Ian leans over Shane to see the camera, giving him a face full of hair in the process.

"No, it's all the pictures Shane took of you, it looks like something out of an 80s porno."

"Oh hey, that one came out really good," Ian says, shifting his weight so he can more comfortably sprawl across Shane's lap. Shane can see just enough of the tiny screen through Ian's hair to see that yeah, that one did come out really good. It's an action shot from one of their games earlier, one that caught him going for a spike, arm outstretched and back a curved tapestry of bunched muscles, ready to spring.

"No, but it keeps going, though, look." Brendon pages quickly through the next few pictures. "You, you, you, group shot, whatever, back to you again, more you--"

"Hey, no, I wanna see," Ian says. He grabs the camera out of Brendon's hands and starts to go back through the set more slowly. "These came out really great, seriously, Shane, look at the lighting on this one."

Shane smiles. "Thanks."

"Sooooooo gaaaaaay," Brendon says in what he probably thinks is a very clever stage whisper.

Ian sticks his tongue out at him. "You're just jealous that Shane didn't take as many pictures of you."

"I don't even think he took this many pictures of me when we were hooking up," Brendon says.

"Hey, I took pictures of you," Shane protests. He totally had, too, there was no way Brendon could deny it.

"Yeah, when I asked you to." Brendon rolls his eyes.

"Then maybe you're just jealous that I photograph better than you do," Ian says, and Brendon makes a defeated you-are-not-getting-the-point noise and announces he's going to get another beer.

\--

The thing is, Shane kind of does get Brendon's point. From an outside perspective, it maybe looks a little tiny bit gay. Shane's not embarrassed to admit he has a whole "Ian" folder on his hard drive, and yeah, maybe some of the stuff in there looks a bit intimate, but they're _family_ , it's not like anything would ever come of it. It's like Ian said: he just photographs well. Shane's whole life is set up around documenting the world around him; Ian just happens to be part of that world on a pretty regular basis.

He's at Shane's house right now, actually, after his ride to the beach party decided to go home with Brendon and Spencer and Sarah instead. Shane's got a guest bedroom set up for exactly this sort of occasion, which is really handy on mornings like this where he's up early doing work and Ian will probably be sleeping off his hangover until noon. Not that Ian wouldn't be welcome on his couch, but it's nice not to have to tip-toe around him for four or five hours.

Shane's just starting to think about lunch when Ian finally shuffles down the hall, yawning and and scratching his belly.

"Water?" Shane asks.

"Yes please," Ian says, folding himself into the corner of the couch. By the time Shane gets back from filling a glass in the kitchen, he's got a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and has managed to find a channel playing a Pinky and the Brain marathon.

"I was going to order Chinese," Shane says, sitting down on the couch next to Ian. "You want?"

Ian groans and lets his head flop back on the arm of the couch. "Ugh no, not real food, too soon. ...Maybe just some soup."

" _Just_ soup?"

"I had like eighteen million beers last night, and then Spencer brought out that tequila. Definitely no food."

Whatever Ian may say now, he's got one of the quickest hangover recovery times Shane has ever seen, and is not above stealing food if he thinks an injustice has been done. Shane briefly considers the lunch combos, then goes for the dinner menu instead and adds about four more spring rolls than he'd eat on his own. When Shane phones in their order, Ian hides his head under the blanket and complains that his head hurts because Shane had to raise his voice to be heard on the other end.

Predictably, Ian finishes his pint of wonton soup freakishly fast and then starts eyeing Shane's meal.

"Dude," Shane says.

"What?" Ian does a big innocent-eyes routine that closely resembles Brendon's own. Shane thinks he must have picked it up on tour.

"If you wanted food you should have ordered it. I've been up all morning and am actually hungry for all this."

"I was all hungover!" Ian protests. 

"Which means you probably still are."

"I feel much better now! Just one spring roll?"

Shane tilts his head. "I don't know..."

"You have, like, a pile of them."

Shane tsks and shifts the pile of rolls to the far end of the coffee table.

"Stop being such a dick," Ian says, and Shane hardly has time to lift his food out of the way before Ian's launched himself across Shane's lap and is grabbing at the nearest roll. 

Shane fends him off as best he can with one arm and both knees, but Ian's time living on a bus with three other dudes has given him superior grappling and evasion skills. He ends up on his back in the space between the couch and the coffee table, still tangled up in the blanket but triumphantly holding a double fistful of spring rolls. 

"Please don't throw up," Shane says.

"Told you I'm mostly recovered," Ian says, tearing at one of the wrappers. "Now all I need is greasy food."

Shane pokes Ian's side with his toe. "I should put a picture of you like that on twitter."

Ian grins, showing off the food in his mouth, so Shane obligingly digs out his phone and snaps a couple photos. They're gross, and Shane is definitely not going to post them to twitter, but seeing Ian all sprawled out and dishevelled on the floor in the preview thumbnail makes something flip in his stomach anyway. 

"Are they saying mean things about me?" Ian asks.

It takes Shane a moment to realize he means twitter. "Nope, didn't post it. Too gross."

"You just didn't want to let the world know how weak your spring roll defense is."

Shane just pokes Ian with his toes again. "Eating upside down like that's going to make you throw up."

"Stop poking me if you're so worried about me throwing up. This is comfortable."

Shane pokes Ian once more, for good measure - Shane's the one who always feels like he's going to throw up when he's hung over anyway, not Ian - and then dutifully leaves Ian alone to eat on the floor like a weirdo. 

-

"I'm going to steal your shower," Ian announces after a while.

"Help yourself," Shane says, and immediately wonders what's wrong with him that that gave him such a vivid mental image. Appreciating someone's (Ian's) natural beauty when they're right there is one thing; Shane's whole livelihood is built around a keenly honed ability to observe the world. Thinking about your cousin naked in the shower is wrong no matter how hot they are, though. Naked shower thoughts have nothing to do with _art_.

Shane tries to get some work done while Ian's in the bathroom, which mostly means going into his office and pulling up his work email and deciding which ones don't need answering right away. All he's got to work on this week is Panic's new promo thing, which he really wants to shoot more footage for before he starts putting it together anyway.

"Busy?" Ian asks, sticking his head in the open office door.

"Nah," Shane says. 

"Cool," Ian says, and crosses over to the futon by the window. He's wearing a pair of shorts and a tank top stolen from Shane's dresser. Shane mentally congratulates himself for the past twenty minutes in which he didn't picture Ian in the shower even once, then mentally slaps himself on the wrist for the image of a damp towel-clad Ian helping himself to Shane's clothes that just popped up unbidden.

"You have any plans for later?" he asks in lieu of dwelling on any of that.

Ian shrugs. "I dunno. Probably just hang out here for a while, we could call Brendon and Spencer later and see if they feel like doing anything."

"Sounds good." 

Shane goes back to sorting emails, and Ian pulls out a book from somewhere and starts reading. It doesn't look like one of Shane's own, but going by the weight of Ian's backpack last night when Shane had to haul it back to his car, it could be one of several. It tugs at something in Shane's chest, the thought that this kind of lazy afternoon together could have been planned out days in advance.

Somehow, Shane ends up getting some work on the promo done, even though he keeps getting distracted by Ian being all sprawled out and pretty in the corner of his field of vision. Ian catches him looking a couple times, and smiles without quite meeting his eyes before going back to his book. 

At four o'clock, just when actual productive work left to do on this section of the promo is winding down, the sun sinks low enough to bathe the entire room in direct light, and really, it would be criminal not to document this moment. Shane thinks he can see the light catching on Ian's fucking eyelashes from here. He gets a couple candid shots of Ian absorbed in his reading, and then the noise of the shutter makes him look up, blinking slowly as he comes up out of some other world.

"Oh, hey."

"Hey, yourself," Shane says, and gets a couple of Ian grinning wide and dorky, all teeth and scrunched-up nose. 

Ian puts down his book, thumb holding the place, and tilts his head, exposing a long strip of neck to the sunlight. Fucking preens, is what he does, and it's a good look on him.

By the time Shane puts his camera down, unable to justify any more shots with essentially identical lighting and composition, Ian's lips have gone all loose and sultry, only the ghost of a grin visible around the corners. His eyes track the lens as Shane sets the camera down on the desk, and Shane has to swallow past a sudden swell of something like pride. He's damn lucky he has an Ian who likes being the subject of photos just as much as Shane likes taking them.

Shane clicks around in the computer for a while, tying up loose ends, but it's not long before Ian shifts on the futon and Shane's eyes snap to the motion like a magnet. 

He's slid down on the futon, pretty much as horizontal as it's possible to get while still nominally sitting down, but what attracts Shane's attention is Ian's hand on his crotch, very, very obviously caught in the process of adjusting a hard-on.

Shane meets Ian's eyes and can't look away; far from looking embarrassed, Ian holds his gaze and fucking smolders at him.

"You look like porn," Shane says, before he can get his verbal censor to kick in.

"Pretty low-budget porn if it's just stills," Ian says.

"Shit," Shane says, fumbling for the nearest video camera. "Can I?"

Ian laughs a little and gives himself a squeeze through the shorts. "What kind of a filmmaker would you be if you could honestly say you'd never shot a porno?"

It's a dare, and an excuse, and Shane jumps on it before he has a chance to second guess. It's not weird if they're doing it just to fill in a hole in Shane's career, this isn't for themselves or anything. "No kind of filmmaker at all," he says.

"I don't mind," Ian says. "So you should obviously, yeah."

"Let me just -" Shane jumps up and adjusts the blinds, sits back down in the desk chair to turn the camera on and make sure it has memory, then thinks better of it and rolls the chair closer until his knees almost bump the edge of the couch.

"Rolling," he says, as an afterthought, but Ian already has a hand down his shorts - Shane's shorts, Ian is jerking himself off in Shane's shorts which he stole from Shane's room while he was all dripping and wet.

Ian keeps eye contact for the first couple strokes, but soon he gets lost in it and Shane turns his attention to the camera screen, rolling in his chair down the length of the couch in search of the perfect angle. He's zoomed in so tight on Ian's face when Ian wriggles out of the shorts that it takes him unawares and he almost gets a foot to the face, but he ducks out of the way just in time.

The view is much better like this, and when Ian pushes up his shirt to get at his nipples there's miles of skin on display, golden in the sunlight. He's taking it slow, light teasing strokes and wandering hands, and Shane's working hard to document every touch, working hard to tell himself that voice in the back of his head going _So THIS is how Ian gets himself off_ is just professional interest. It's coming out well for a one-camera job, he thinks, though he wishes he had a second camera to keep on Ian's face at all times, and had thought to set up a mic to capture all the soft little pleased noises he's making.

"Shane," Ian says. His voice is all breathy. Shane feels hot all over.

"Yeah?" Shane catches himself looking at Ian, not the camera, and by the time he realizes his error, Ian's slid mostly out of the frame. He can edit that out later. 

"Nothing," Ian says.

He's going faster now, more sure, like he's getting close. Seized by a sudden idea, Shane wheels back up the length of the futon, then has to abandon the chair because there's no room for it in the space between the arm of the futon and the wall. It's better here, though, even though Shane has to wedge himself in - Ian's face in the foreground, eyelashes fanned across his cheeks, body spread out over the futon in a dirty sprawl. It would be even better if Shane could get in and film right over Ian's shoulder, though, but he's stuck standing up back here.

"Can I get up on here," he hears himself asking before he's really had a chance to think better of it, gesturing at the edge of the futon when Ian tips his head back to look. Ian shifts forward to give him room, propping himself up on one elbow, and Shane tucks himself into the space provided.

This is much better - he can zoom in close, pan right down the folds of the tank top to where it's pushed up to expose his stomach, across the peaks of his hipbones and down to where the head of his cock is disappearing under his closed hand. Ian shifts his weight restlessly, and somehow it's the easiest thing in the world to let him lean back into Shane's chest. Ian gives a little sigh when he gets his free hand on himself again, pausing to tug at his balls before trailing over his thigh, scratching slightly.

"Do that again," Shane says, because he wants to get a shot of Ian's expression when he did it.

Ian makes a _nngh_ sound and obliges, and Shane gets his shot so he doesn't think about how that was probably a little weird. He scootches a little closer, just because his camera arm is starting to get tired, and then he's just cradling ian in the v of his legs. His hand ends up on Ian's hip, thumb rubbing tiny circles in the soft skin there, and Ian makes another wordless noise and tilts his hips up into the touch.

"Are you close?" Shane asks. Ian's back to light little two-finger strokes on his cock now, like he's trying to hold off, and Shane wants to _know_.

"So close," Ian says. "Shane, please -"

Shane doesn't know what Ian's asking for, not really, but he brushes his fingers over the back of Ian's knuckles in a wordless question.

"Yes, yes, please, yes," Ian gasps, tangling his fingers with Shane's over his cock. 

"Ian," Shane says, and then loses track of what he was going to say because his hand. Is on Ian's cock. He kind of wants to memorize the feel of it, but Ian's setting the pace, faster now like this is what he'd been waiting for, and Shane doesn't want to make him wait any longer.

It doesn't take much longer with both of them jerking him off together, and soon Ian's tipping his head back with a shout and coming all over their hands and his stomach. With the way they're pressed together, Shane can feel the aftershocks rolling through him, and he strokes Ian through it until he whimpers and pushes Shane's hand away.

"You're so fucking beautiful," Shane says into Ian's shoulder. "That was beautiful."

"Oh my god, no, _you_ ," Ian says, squirming around in Shane's arms until they're face to face. 

_What_ , Shane thinks, but he doesn't get a chance to say it because Ian's kissing him, full-on open mouthed kissing with his hands pushed up into Shane's hair and his come-streaked front pressed into Shane's shirt. Shane's hardly had time to start kissing back before Ian's moving again, shifting his weight so he can stick his hand down the front of Shane's jeans, and it's all Shane can do to scrabble at Ian's shoulders and hang on. They can figure out how to make this not-weird at some point; for now, Shane is just totally, totally gone.


End file.
